


macabre rivulets intertwined (hope asleep in fifteen heartbeats)

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorders, Family Issues, Found Family, Happy Ending, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Illnesses, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Literary References & Allusions, Medication, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Multi, Mythology References, Nightmares, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Hatred, Sexuality Crisis, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, i'm so fucking sorry for the amount of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: it takes three months for everyone to wake up.as he grasps the hand of komaeda nagito and pulls him out of the pod,his shoulders relax.finally.(a nonlinear study on the remnants of despair as they recover from the neo world and all that occurred before. somewhere along the way, forgiveness is given, relationships are formed, and they all find their paths to happiness.)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito, Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko/Soda Kazuichi, Mioda Ibuki/Pekoyama Peko/Tsumiki Mikan, Sonia Nevermind/Owari Akane
Comments: 49
Kudos: 307





	macabre rivulets intertwined (hope asleep in fifteen heartbeats)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestial_nova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_nova/gifts), [ToxicPineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicPineapple/gifts).



> this is gifted to tox and nova. sorry if this is a weird fic to gift, sorry if you don’t like it. you don’t actually have to read it tbh this; gifting is for sentimental reasons. i know you stan THH, nova sffdsljdlk. anyway. i love you two so fucking much. thank you for dragging me into this fandom a year ago. thank you for supporting me. thank you for being half the reason i met so many incredible people. thank you, thank you, thank you.

the first person to wake up is hinata hajime.

his eyes sting. his hands twitch. the psychodives-- fluorescent screens at three am-- are the pulse in his heart. he doesn’t sleep until he wakes up the next person, then the next, then the next, then the next. he passes out eventually from dehydration, goes on forced rest for a few days, before he returns to it. kamukura comes, sometimes. he knows this because he’ll come to, shoulders tense and medical information filling his mind, screaming, and he  _ has  _ to ignore it because he still has people to save. it takes three months for everyone to wake up.

as he grasps the hand of komaeda nagito and pulls him out of the pod,

his shoulders relax.

_ finally.  _

\--

the first time they all eat breakfast together is approximately a month after they all wake up.

sonia keeps track, because sonia likes to stay organized. she functions under a schedule, under patterns (not mathematical-- she has never cared for that). she is observant of her people, because her friends on jabberwock  _ are  _ her people now, and she does not let a detail go amiss.

it is not mirthless, but it is disturbed.

souda’s leg is agitated, bouncing at a relentless pace as he fidgets with a small scrap of metal he took to the breakfast table. it’s not the most sanitary decision, but sonia merely keeps her lips pressed tight in hesitant worry and focuses on the others. hanamura overworks himself in the kitchen, but imposter remains there to keep a watchful eye on him. it is not necessarily because of their circumstances in the killing game, but there is a poisoned irony to it, one that is not lost on either of them. elsewhere, she sees that kuzuryuu is sitting beside pekoyama, eating an apple with something akin to spite as the swordswoman simply stares. 

sonia takes a sip of her tea-- chamomile. she continues to note.

tsumiki is alone, though both mioda and komaeda keep an eye on her (both for different reasons). speaking of the latter, komaeda is accompanied solely by hinata, who has tense shoulders and likely another migraine. his hair is growing long-- she wonders if she will be permitted to cut it for him. komaeda does not eat a lot, and saionji mutters a comment about it. koizumi’s arm is gentle but stern as she guides the dancer away to nidai, who is speaking to the two of them in a boisterous voice.

still, it is too quiet. 

she stops watching the others when she notices tanaka slide in the seat beside her, his face harrowed and troubled. he has not handled awakening well, though he does not tell her this. she can simply observe it. she allows him to rest his head on her shoulder-- positive physical contact is a new occurrence to him, one he reserves for her-- and listens when he murmurs, “the wind is quiet today.”

she cannot pretend that she understands that. but she can sense the desperation his voice carries, one that makes her eyebrows furrow as she stares at her cup and replies, “yes. it is.”

soon enough, tanaka straightens and disregards his food, preferring to watch owari and nidai talk to mioda eagerly about training,

and sonia continues to sip her tea. 

\--

imposter isn’t sure who they are, yet. 

it comes up in conversation with souda, surprisingly, as imposter watches him work with the electricity wires. it was initially to give him some praise for his hard work, but souda didn’t sound like he wanted them to leave. and so, they sit on the floor, eating some buttered bread, as souda tinkers and tweaks the machinery.

it’s an informal conversation, one imposter can settle into with the ease of someone who is nothing at all, who can encompass any kind of converser or performer without so much as a blink. it isn’t the most comfortable sensation, despite its simplicity, but it is something imposter can accomplish. 

typically they are on the receiving end of a confession, but as a difference from usual communication, imposter speaks something truthful, a simple statement wrapped casually enough to appeal to souda. “i do not know who i am.”

“mm,” souda grunts at first. after a couple of minutes, he offers a more cohesive reply. “i mean. i get that you impersonate people-- which is a bit freaky, y’know, but a  _ cool  _ kinda freaky-- but you’re still you. ya feel me? just don’t try’n change yourself, yeah? it doesn’t usually go too great.” there’s some emotion in that. 

imposter does not have a clear response to that initially. so they simply nod.

eventually, though, words come. “did you attempt to change yourself?”

“yeah,” souda replies quickly. he repeats it, quieter, a small echo, “yeah.” the cicadas begin to call out to the sound of grating machinery, and it is almost picturesque, in some way. though imposter does not care for pictures, nor caricatures. but then, who are they? who are- “my hair isn’t really pink, y’know? i dyed it. cuz i wanted to be cool. ‘n i dated some girls ‘n shit, hooked up with ‘em, but i wasn’t really  _ happy _ .” he barks out a rough laugh at that. “i mean, ‘m not happy now, either. but at least ‘m me. even if that means ‘m shitty.” 

“do you like your hair?” imposter inquires softly.

he grins, shoots them a thumbs up. “hell yeah, dude! it’s cool! but… i dunno. nevermind, i guess.”

“about her,” imposter presses. “nevermind. sonia, rather. did you ever-”

“‘course i flirted with her. pretty girl, all hot ‘n shit, what was i gonna do? the shit i did was creepy, ‘n i know she hates me for it, but-”

“did you ever like her?”

it takes a few seconds to receive a reply. this is proof enough, but imposter still listens for the definitive answer, given to them with a curt and brief, “nah.”

“was it projection?”

he shrugs. “she’s pretty, so ‘course i had to like her. my father would’ve wanted me to do that. but i was never… i dunno. sounds stupid when i say it. the kinda lengths i would go to just to keep my real shit bundled down, i guess.”

imposter nods. “i feel as if i am a projection.” 

souda looks at them for a long moment, face surprisingly serious. it eventually dissolves into a tired grin, and he reaches out to poke their shoulder, leaving a small smudge of grime on their shirt. imposter doesn’t quite mind, especially not when souda says, genuinely, “nah, you feel like a person to me.”

imposter does not leave until the electricity wires are done.

(they vow, silently, to visit souda again tomorrow.)

\--

koizumi takes pictures of saionji dancing, still. 

the dance is different. koizumi has watched her old videos, and she can  _ vaguely  _ remember some from despair times, and she notices that the movements are different, now. a little slower, more careful and cautious. less  _ relaxed. _ as if every step is terrifying. 

koizumi understands. each click of the shutter sends her mind somewhere else, for a second. but she always comes back feeling a bit relieved. it’s an interesting experience. she thinks it’s healing, a bit.

though, she isn’t really healing yet. she can’t talk to pekoyama yet, even though the two of them have been awake for a while. she can’t see eye to eye with kuzuryuu, either. she sticks close to saionji, sometimes hinata (when he’s himself), and tsumiki and mioda if saionji can handle it. she has a close cluster of people she trusts, but not a lot of people she really  _ trusts.  _

she misses her father. even more, she misses her mother. she misses her friends, even if they are right in front of her. she wants to photograph them all on the beach. she wants to trap them in a polaroid so the memories will stay, even if not all of them do. she’s terrified every night someone will die. she can’t go swimming or take long showers. she wants to take responsibility, but she isn’t sure how. she wants to say  _ i love you all,  _ but she isn’t sure how. 

she doesn’t trust anybody with this information.

she brings herself back to reality with the sound of the shutter, the light footsteps of saionji’s bare feet as she runs to stand by her side, to look over her shoulder at the new images. she wishes she could drown in the camera forever.

\--

hinata has a migraine and komaeda won’t take his pills. 

they do this a lot. this fucked-up kind of routine that hinata can’t really  _ blame  _ him for, because it’s not exactly like komaeda signed up to have suicidal thoughts when he was born (it’s not like komaeda signed up to live at all), but it’s still  _ frustrating _ . hinata doesn’t know what he has to do to convince the other to care for himself. he doesn’t know how many arguments they need to have. he doesn’t know how to get it through the other’s thick skull that  _ yeah, you dying would actually not be preferable.  _ he doesn’t know how to even attempt to breach that.

he manages to get komaeda to take them, eventually, after more bickering than he can physically handle. he usually wins-- komaeda doesn’t concede to the point, exactly, but he chirps out something about existing to make hinata happy as he swallows the bitter pills. it’s not that hinata’s happy with it. he’s not happy with it, not at all. komaeda has this way of making hinata feel like he does it all for  _ him,  _ like he’s forced, that he  _ has  _ to say that kind of shit, and hinata knows that he genuinely believes that, doesn’t know any better. and hinata isn’t happy with it.

but here’s the thing, kind of: komaeda does it, and that’s enough for him. 

except, well, now? it’s enough but a bit _too_ _much._ because somewhere in the mix, personal space was told to fuck off, and hinata tried to _physically get the pills down._ and now, hinata’s hand is still cupping komaeda’s face, and his thumb is tenderly brushing his bottom lip, chapped and yet rosy, and soon komaeda’s lips part and what the _fuck_ are they doing, what the _fuck,_ it’s not-

komaeda grabs his hand before he can move it. he wraps long, skeletal fingers around hinata’s wrist, presses against his pulse gently, leans forward from where he is sitting and rests his head on hinata’s chest (hinata, who is standing, who is searching for an escape, who might tear his hair out-). neither of them speak for a while. there’s not much to say, really-- it’s heavy and it’s ugly and it’s stealing away hinata’s breath and komaeda doesn’t have much breath  _ left,  _ and there are a lot of pill bottles to get through and a lot of treatment to get through before hinata can sleep knowing that he won’t lose him, at least not to his illness because what if komaeda kills himself, what then, and-

“hinata-kun.” his voice is sweet like the look in his eyes. both are sad and breaking and yearning, a bit, but it has a soft kind of sound to it as he continues to whisper, “slow down.”

hinata shakes his head, looking down at komaeda. he looks pathetic, sitting on the bed with melancholic eyes and a weak grip on his wrist. he looks pathetic, but hinata is more anxious over him, constantly fretting and yet apathetic over the person who has pushed him further than anybody else. “i can’t,” he ends up mumbling. “i still have to protect you.”

komaeda laughs. “i don’t need to be protected, hinata-kun.”

“komaeda, i-”

“when’s the last time you slept?”

he can’t meet the cool eyes of his patient, the irises so frozen yet so willing to wait for him. komaeda has always waited for him, sometimes too long, and that hurts more than anything. hinata struggles to get out the words, “i don’t know,” because he’s terrified of being taken care of. he isn’t sure he can handle it.

and yet, komaeda lets go of his wrist and shifts on the cot, tilting his head enough for hinata to get the gist and lay down, hesitant and yet exhausted. komaeda strokes his hair and hinata wants to stroke his, because it looks fluffy and soft but matted and thin and hinata doesn’t know how to make it  _ stronger--  _ his thoughts shut off as komaeda lays against him, his body all skin and bone and yet perfectly fitting against hinata’s chest, and he falls asleep in an instant.

(when he wakes up three hours later to see komaeda asleep, he wonders if it was just a ploy to skip his medicines again. he hopes not. he really hopes not,

but what do either of them know about hope?)

\--

tsumiki is the one present when kamukura comes out for the first time since they all awakened.

he may have been out before, back when hinata was working religiously to get every person out of the neo world program, doing countless psychodives until he nearly lost his mind, but tsumiki doesn’t remember that time well. the others do, maybe, but tsumiki is on the forgetful side.

(she isn’t usually. she never was before. but after remembering  _ everything,  _ enough to  _ kill--  _

well, she wants to forget again.)

kamukura isn’t as intimidating as she vaguely recalls. his eyes are empty and his stature is still, his vitals more calm and natural than hinata’s has ever been, but there is still a twinge of emotion she can sense. it must be strange, coming to in a place like this, watching as a nurse he only ever remembers as provocative and murderous for despair prescribes him migraine medication. it must be strange, accepting that help and rationalizing it as being for hinata, not himself, because kamukura was not made to have migraines or weakened immunity or neurological complications. it must be strange, because tsumiki can’t imagine that and only hinata can, really, and hinata isn’t on the island right now. he’s inside kamukura’s mind, lingering in an inner world, and it must be so, so strange.

that sounds patronizing, though, so she won’t say anything. tsumiki is too focused to apologize relentlessly for it.

the only words he speaks are, “... thank you, tsumiki,” before he departs with the bottle.

(he is still kamukura when they all have dinner. most of them do not notice. a handful of them are agitated, fearful, hostile. komaeda is almost excited. and tsumiki feels… strange.)

\--

pekoyama swings her sword as mioda swings her legs and watches her.

it’s old practice, a rhythmic routine she is used to. she dances around artfully yet mindlessly, and it’s so easy for her to remember the times where she had to kill someone like this, with a simple bamboo sword that has met the end of many people-- more people than she knows the name of. it makes her anxious, this  _ idea  _ that she could get so absorbed in this that she loses herself,

which is why she has mioda here.

mioda hums and she sings and she chatters. it’s a white noise that pekoyama has been trained to tune out, but she chooses to listen, instead, because mioda makes any topic sound fascinating. even when the two of them are exhausted, when mioda hasn’t slept in days and pekoyama is almost keeling on the ground, there’s still a light conversation about new music or cats or matters pekoyama never had time to think about.

but now, she  _ does.  _ she has forever to think about it. as long as the world allows her to live, she can stay with mioda like this, talking about light-hearted, sweet things.

she isn’t able to tell mioda how much it means to her. she’s not well-spoken, despite her abilities in articulation, and affection has always been something of difficulty for her. so instead, she gives mioda some rare smiles and watches as magenta eyes light up brighter than the stars above them,

and it gives her strength, again.

\--

“you were close to your mother, weren’t you?”

hanamura sighs and does not look away from the stew he is making. he recognizes the voice-- sweet with callouses, and yet carrying an urgency. she must be urgent if she’s asking a question like  _ this _ , but the cook (not chef, never chef, not anymore) doesn’t hesitate to offer a blunt reply. “yeah, i was.”

koizumi leans against the refrigerator, her arms exposed in the flannel shirt she’s wearing, and hanamura would ordinarily compliment her on the freckles littering the skin, but he is learning boundaries and that coping with sex isn’t a good way to cope at all. even though freckles aren’t really  _ sexual _ , but he doesn’t trust himself. it’s difficult, not having something to cling to. 

she is pretty anyway.

“sorry for the abrupt question,” she apologizes needlessly.

he picks up a ladle. “mm.”

the future foundation needs to send them more food, soon. they offered to send some vegetables seeds-- and homegrown ingredients sound  _ good _ \-- but hinata has yet to say yes. nobody knows who would do it, though owari is certainly interested in the idea. komaeda seems willing, but hanamura would like the food to  _ actually  _ be intact and edible. and nobody knows how komaeda’s luck works even still, except komaeda himself and maybe hinata.

nobody really knows anything about komaeda. hanamura isn’t all that interested in learning.

but who knows? maybe komaeda can garden. maybe it can be a bit more normal in this weird place. maybe all they need is some fresh mint leaves, ripe blackberries, and a patch of honeysuckle.

mm, damn. he misses fresh tomatoes, too. he misses-

“... i miss my mother,” koizumi says after a few seconds of hesitation. hanamura stops thinking about plants and listens. “my father, too. and i… i thought maybe you would understand. because… you would do anything for them, but you…”

“yeah,” he mumbles, pouring the soup into a few porcelain bowls. he offers one to koizumi, who accepts it with a small nod and quiet  _ thank you _ , and hanamura watches her sit down as he tries to get the guts to eat the food he just made. he always gets nauseous when he thinks about his mama. “i miss my mama a lot.”

koizumi nods sympathetically. “do you want to talk about her?”

he doesn’t reply for a long, long moment. after considering for two minutes, the unease in his stomach proving to be relentless, he sits down on a stool and begins talking. and through it all, koizumi listens.

\--

it’s moments like these that punctuate the tragic island with noise and laughter.

“goddammit, souda, you dumbass!”

“s-sorry!”

“it’s fine,” kuzuryuu sighs, looking down at the rocks where the other boy had slipped. thankfully, kuzuryuu steadied him, and he’s now leaning against him with no sign of letting go. which is fine, even though kuzuryuu is blushing a bit. after some hesitation, he nudges souda off and holds out his hand. “c’mon. just so you don’t fall again.”

souda wiggles his eyebrows. kuzuryuu punches his shoulder.

kuzuryuu snorts when souda cries out, “oww!”

and it feels kind of nice, for the first time in a goddamn while.

it’s stupid to say that kuzuryuu’s been having a tough time because, no shit, everyone is. turns out, though, coming to terms with the fact that you might have childhood trauma from being a fucking yakuza as well as  _ current  _ trauma from the world falling apart is no easy task. it fucking sucks. being weak, that is. and all the shit going on. plus there’s some  _ other  _ shit-- because turns out, kuzuryuu’s kind of gay? and him and pekoyama had to talk about that shit, which was a  _ lot,  _ but they kind of reached a point of  _ we’re practically siblings and shit got complicated but i love you as a sister  _ and also something like  _ you’re gay for mioda and tsumiki and i’m gay for souda now what. _ and on that note, what’s he supposed to do? like? what the fuck?

it’s why he likes spending time with souda. maybe partly because he’s gay for him, but also because, y’know. it’s a distraction. when he’s  _ here _ , sitting on the cliff-sort-of-thing overlooking the beach, his friend leaning against him and chattering about the machines he’s working-- it feels alright. just a bit.

even when it falls quiet. because sometimes it’s quiet and kuzuryuu really,  _ really  _ fucking hates silence because he’s not one to, like, start up a conversation. and not having anything to talk about or listen to just makes him think about the shitty things, like,  _ oh i really haven’t talked to koizumi at all in two weeks, huh _ , or  _ i wonder if souda realizes how shitty i am,  _ or  _ maybe my sister would be really fucking mad at me but i miss her anyway,  _ or-

but he snaps out of it, eventually, because souda nudges his shoulder and asks, “you good, dude?”

and ugh. he knows the right answer, here, but like. ugh. he doesn’t want to  _ say  _ he’s good, because he kind of woke up feeling shitty today, but he feels better  _ here  _ than he has when he  _ isn’t  _ here and he’s kinda mad souda even asked because now he’s overthinking it. so he just gives up and goes for something like, “i dunno, man,” and he kind of expects the worst.

except, souda wraps an arm around his shoulder, and kuzuryuu hesitates because what is he supposed to do with that, but eventually he kind of leans his head against souda’s shoulder and closes his eyes, and souda mumbles out a “yeah” as he looks over the ocean.

and this silence is a bit more bearable. maybe. because souda is here, and kuzuryuu kind of recognizes that he can take as long as he wants to figure shit out. that souda won’t hate him for it.

and thank fuck for that.

\--

komaeda has been seeking her company often, recently.

sonia isn’t upset by this. while she has a bit of hesitancy being around him-- because he is a fairly alarming individual-- he’s well versed in english and poetry and literature, and the two of them can talk comfortably for a long time over topics she usually keeps to herself. it’s a budding friendship, one carried out over white tea and hushed whispers in a foreign language, and it is honestly quite pleasant.

however, she does begin to grow more worried about him.

or, rather, him and hinata.

sonia is close to hinata as well. the two of them were the first to wake up and often clung to each other then-- though sonia doesn’t particularly like recalling this. over time, they were also together when recovery began to bloom, and now they are always there for each other, no matter what. so of course, sonia notices little details, little  _ agitations.  _

and she notes that a lot of them involve komaeda. komaeda, who is seemingly reluctant to let her in. komaeda, who is blatantly in love with hinata. komaeda, who hates hinata as well. komaeda, who is slightly worrying in these regards.

and so, it is a rather sudden but perhaps expected inquiry when sonia asks, whilst pouring some more tea, “how is hinata-san?”

he smiles in the way he typically does when he is trying to be cordial and nothing more-- stiff and yet cheerful, something she has learned to adjust to but vows to help change. his voice is light but not free when he says, “ah, i’m sure hinata-kun himself would give you a better answer, haha.”

“let me revise my question, then. how is your relationship with hinata-san?”

komaeda falls chillingly quiet at that. for a few moments, he is silent, pondering. sonia takes this time to open up a novel, read through a few more pages. eventually, she hears a response. “troubled,” is the brief answer komaeda gives, a flatness in his tone. sonia closes the book and sits up straight, and she receives more elaboration at her interest. “i’m concerned about him, haha. it’s unfortunate that he cares so much about someone like me. he’s been lacking sleep because of me, which is… distressing. although, i suppose that could be considered his fault, as reserves appear to push themselves too far for menial, worthless things.”

“hinata-san is no longer a reserve,” sonia remarks.

“i am aware,” he responds coldly. sonia does not comment on this. “i dislike him, in truth. haha, no, a revision, actually. i  _ resent  _ him. i resent kamukura-kun, too, even though our past together was… intimate.”

“intimate?” she questions.

he laughs. “we were close together, physically. he wanted to experiment, and i wanted to serve. somewhere along the lines, i may have fallen in love! however, hinata-kun and kamukura-kun, now, don’t want to think of it as our past. hinata-kun is ashamed, and i think kamukura-kun might be, too. which is no good at all! i served them! i still  _ do.  _ and yet, they want our relationship to be natural. simple. tender, even. despite being a reserve and my god at once, he wants it to be  _ easy.  _ but that’s not who we are, that’s not who i  _ am _ !” sonia briefly debates telling him to stop, to  _ breathe _ , but she understands that this is something he has kept inside for far too long. “i keep trying to explain to him. he doesn’t understand-- i’ve lost  _ everyone _ , and he constantly thinks he's going to break the cycle. we were still  _ unlucky  _ when we were in despair, even with kamukura’s luck, and maybe it was easier but it’s not  _ enough,  _ and i resent him  _ so much,  _ i hate him with every piece of my dying body, haha, my body he’s so  _ convinced  _ he needs to save, a body he used to  _ worship,  _ but i am the worshipper but he won’t  _ let me,  _ and what good am i  _ then,  _ i hate him so much because i… i…!”

“you love him,” she finishes softly.

he breathes in,

and slowly, he nods.

“you should tell him this, komaeda-san,” she says, her hands clasped in her lap.

his voice has lowered to a vulnerable whisper as he gazes at his tea cup. “i’ve tried,” his voice breaks a little. “every time, he tries to say… he tries to say that he… he tries to ask questions, figure out why i… and i can’t cope with it. what am i supposed to do, sonia?” after a few seconds, he laughs again, but it’s lacking warmth and life. “i’m so scared.”

she sighs, “i know.”

he shakes his head. “i wish he never woke me up.” he laughs bitterly, reaching up to tear at his hair. “haha, i wish he never even  _ considered _ it.”

sonia doesn’t know what to say to that. 

so instead, she removes one of her hands from her lap and reaches across the table, intertwining her fingers with his. she doesn’t watch him as he shakes silently, his eyes turbulent and panicked. she thinks instead.

\--

mioda thinks the fairy lights were a nice touch.

she’s sitting with her friends-- well, saionji, koizumi, and tsumiki, who are her friends but her close-close friends-- in the warehouse. of course, she made the place look a lot nicer! she employed the help of souda to make all the lights sound cool and she got a couple CDs from him (she really loves souda. she should spend more time with him! maybe they can play music together-- or, or! she can play a romantic song for him and kuzuryuu when they go on another date!). 

but what makes the place  _ really nice  _ is that for the first time in a while, tsumiki and saionji haven’t bickered! and saionji is dancing to the rock music while koizumi takes pictures and mioda giggles, tries to join in, but she can’t move a lot because tsumiki is laying with her head in her lap (EEEEE) and there’s this almost startling moment when mioda realizes that everything is really okay, right now. and she’s happy!

she’s usually happy, actually, but with all the memories and stuff, it gets kind of scary. she’s still scared of ropes and being sick, so she stays wide wide awake! but tsumiki says that it’s not good to avoid sleeping and hinata agreed, so mioda is doing her best! still, it’s sad. everyone on the island is sad, really.

but they’re getting better! and the four of them are  _ here!  _ and koizumi is taking their picture so tsumiki sits up, and mioda kisses her cheek just as the shutter goes off, and saionji mutters, “gross,” under her breath but she smiles, also, and this is good! this is okay!

and they sleep over that night (because mioda brought a TON of pillows) and they all curl together really, really close: tsumiki cuddles into mioda’s side, saionji sleeps on top of koizumi, holding mioda’s hand while koizumi throws an arm around tsumiki. and mioda stays up the latest, listening to the soft sound of her friends sleeping and the rain coming down gently on the roof outside, and she thinks she could write a song about this!

but she’s sleepy, right now.

and for the first time in a while, she falls asleep and doesn’t have dreams of scary ladders and killing games.

\--

hinata hates this entire experience.

it’s necessary, of course. his hair had grown unbearably long and, while komaeda tangled his fingers in it with mild enjoyment, kamukura and hinata had both reached a conclusion that it was becoming impossible to maintain. when sonia offered up the opportunity to cut his hair for him, he agreed quickly, because it seemed like a pain to do himself,

and he hates looking at himself in the mirror.

here, there are no mirrors, except one kept in sonia’s pocket. she snips with careful precision while imposter watches. they had offered to leave, to let the two of them be alone, but there wasn’t much point to it. hinata thinks it might be cathartic for them to see someone so torn apart with identity issues. well, he does not  _ think _ this; it is not an educated guess. he  _ knows  _ this.  _ kamukura _ knows this.

it’s difficult, though, to have two pairs of eyes on him, watching him be vulnerable and out of control. having control in this situation wouldn’t be best, since he would probably cut large chunks off haphazardly, desperate to get the short and spiky cut of his hair in the simulation. but he knows he can’t do that, that his hair is a shade too dark for it to match perfectly, that sonia can do a better job.

he shuts his eyes tight. 

sonia’s hands still in his hair, and she briefly and kindly asks, “are you alright, hinata-san?”

he nods firmly. “fine,” he manages to get out. “keep going.”

she hums, continuing to cut off strands. quietly, she whispers idly, “i’m proud of you.”

“yeah, thanks,” he tries for a smile, but it’s impossible to get out without being forced and he doesn’t have the strength for it. it’s hard enough to tune out the endless static of  _ this is meaningless this conversation is meaningless you are meaningless a haircut is meaningless  _ and hinata isn’t exactly eager to put more burdens on his shoulder. 

(komaeda likened him to atlas, once. it was a small remark, but hinata’s thought about it a lot since.)

it doesn’t take too much longer to finish. imposter sits silently and sonia talks to herself in french (which hinata understands fluently, but he chooses not to draw out that talent) until eventually, his hair is back to the same hairstyle it was in the simulation. except, it still doesn’t look right. he wants to tear at it. it isn’t  _ right,  _ it doesn’t  _ look right- _

it never will.

he excuses himself quickly, ignores sonia’s worried expression as he heads to the rockiest part of the beach with the footsteps of someone who has memorized the islands twice. he throws pebbles into the water, staring at the ripples until the entire world goes fuzzy and all he hears is static and the waves lapping at the unmoving shore,

and he cries.

\--

_ thousands of hoards _

_ thousands of people slashing tearing it hurts it _

_ she sees him the only _

_ the only person in this goddamn _

_ place _

_ that’s familiar she has to save him what if they get him what if they _

_ she sees a glint of other people friends but she startles his eye is bleeding _

**_YOUNG MASTER_ **

_ she feels a slashSLASHSLASHSLASHSLASH _

_ HOW MANY PEOPLE HAS SHE _

pekoyama wakes up shaking.

she has nightmares often. everyone does. there’s always someone wandering the island late at night and  _ occasionally,  _ screams can be heard from a few cottages down. most people are restless at breakfast-- there are those with disturbed sleep, those who don’t sleep at  _ all,  _ and those who sleep entire days away. souda, for one, always has dark circles under his eyes, and komaeda’s screams are unexpected and  _ terrifying,  _ and nobody knows where hinata disappears to for weeks on end, really, but people assume that the energy lost trying to utilize kamukura’s talent has to be compensated  _ somewhere. _

with tears in her eyes, she gets out of bed, impulsively throwing her bed sheets to the floor and leaving with thin pajamas. she’s unprepared for the salty shore wind, cold and biting, but  _ anything  _ is better than the scorching burns of blood and the scent of ash scraping away at her voice as she tries to cough, tries to fight with precision, but she messes up and-

“peko?”

she did not realize someone was already here.

kuzuryuu approaches with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, and his eyes widen a bit when he sees the tears. “hey,” he says casually, his voice disarming, “what’s up?” 

and something about how  _ kind _ he sounds, how  _ relaxed  _ he is, how  _ safe  _ he always is-- it makes her cry harder, and she blames that, too, on exhaustion, but now she’s sobbing and she feels like a little girl again, abandoned by her parents, alone. and she wants to apologize for the way the silvery hairs of her disheveled braids stick to her face because of the rivulets or she wants to apologize for the way that her voice comes out, strangled and inarticulate for the first time since she’s  _ understood _ \-- but she doesn’t, because kuzuryuu takes her into his arms and mutters, “you’re okay, peko. you’re alright.”

and she sobs for hours on the chilly beach that is still  _ infinitely  _ better than  _ ash  _ and  _ blood  _ and  _ death. _

\--

he rests in a liminality between mer and mar, the pulsing heartbeat of an elysian ocean littering the starry sky with seraphic echoes. although, a flaw-- he does not  _ rest  _ in this earthly place. the land of mortals has never served a cradle, as he did not fly from the warmth of a womb. he has always  _ existed _ as the mouthpiece of worlds, the damned child of heaven and hell, and it is unfathomable to envision a place without his presence. where would the  _ words _ go, the speak of angels, unlistened? where would the omens, the portents, the  _ tales _ so cursed,

where would they go?

for now, however, he is located on terrain of scattered pearls and lightly-dusted sunkissed terra. 

he is not alone for long.

(but he is  _ never alone,  _ because the call of the angels will come, as will the final reckon, even if he cannot  _ hear  _ it, even if the words have gone  _ silent,  _ because he will never be abandoned, despite the actions of a devil with trembling footsteps in the wake of hell. he is supreme-- he is an overlord-- and he is not solitary because he could never be, even if, 

even if,

he is surrounded by the bursting of a thousand suns, and he is protected by the luminescent moon, watching him as gasoliers watch the quivering floor of an abandoned, wretched place.)

the person who comes is souda, which is unexpected. the two mortals he typically meets at hours like this are not fully  _ mortals, _ as sonia is the dark queen of hell and kamukura is a master of the arcane, a devil that is not quite filthy, not quite desperate. souda is not either of these. he is mortal in every aspect-- the dirt on his cheek and the waver in his not-yet-thundering step is evidence of such-- and therefore, there is no interest to be had in this exchange of converse. 

however, a curiosity does peak at the first words spoken, a neutral and unafraid, “i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at the mechanic. his lips are pressed in a thin line, his sharkish canines hidden from view (he is reminded of wolves, suddenly, the beat against the grass as they tear away at him, and he has been torn away at before like this but that was upon a dream, that was upon a  _ call- _ ) and his fuchsia irises darkened, slightly, from a matter unlike the moonlight.

and a phrase is choked out, not yet a prophecy but a response, and he has always been nothing but a vessel to carry the messages of those above and below him, and so he articulates, “it is fine,” with no malintent, no emotion, no thought.

souda appears unsatisfied, as mortals usually are, when they feast on the thought of being appeased, on others offering the ability to (and he is not incapable, because he is an overlord, but perhaps he lacks in this area and perhaps he lacks in a few others but he is  _ worthy,  _ he drinks from a chalice of holy water that burns the poison in his veins, dripping from his lips, and perhaps the venom is a sign in of itself, but he does not-). souda sits beside him, which was not the response to a request, as nothing was said after the initial response, but he sits and the overlord is too confused to react quickly enough before souda can say, “are you?”

he blinks. the overlord blinks. “what?” 

“are you fine?” souda repeats.

a foolish question. a  _ foolish  _ question. he is fine. he is fine, because he can hear the call of angels, and even if it is silent now he still hears the thrum of his mother’s melody, but his mother has not  _ spoken  _ to him, but perhaps all angels are destined to fall. he would not like her to fall if he could not as well-- he craves the heat of hell’s coals, the scorch and rot, because he is the burning of an effigy, because he is not  _ man,  _ he is not  _ worthless man _ . however, what if he is? he is forced to bear the brunt of mercury alone, pining for the knowledge he is now being  _ denied  _ like a feverish man, but he is not man because he is overlord, but he is not  _ cradled,  _ and perhaps he is not overlord but rather damned child, and perhaps he should be cradled and perhaps-- no,  _ certainly _ \-- he is undeserving but he will be deserving  _ soon,  _ when he is given herculean tasks to handle alone with effervescence, yet hera is not speaking to him, and  _ where is his mother _ , and-

“tanaka?” 

… oh.

“i am fine,” he says coolly. he repeats with a quieter, “i am  _ fine. _ ” 

souda does not say anything. 

neither does he. 

but when souda reaches a hand out to place on the shoulder of an overlord, untouchable, cursed,  _ aflame _ …

the damned child of heaven and hell does not deny him.

\--

saionji has no idea why she’s here. 

really, the island weather is icky today, and she isn’t with koizumi because koizumi is busy hanging out with tsumiki (which is also icky for a different reason, but whatever) so there’s no reason to be outside, and yet she’s sitting on the beach drinking some stupid coconut drink komaeda gave her (it’s probably poisoned) and watching nidai train.

she doesn’t even _talk_ to nidai. like, okay, everyone talks to him, but few people _talk_ to him. he’s all about preaching this self-positivity recovering bullshit and she gets annoyed, dammit, because just let someone be _sad_ for two fucking seconds, jesus. it’s not that difficult, you sweaty man! and okay, maybe koizumi likes this positive shit, and maybe it sounds _kinda_ cool, y’know, not feeling like shit for the rest of forever, but who _cares_? saionji’s been sad for forever, but like, who gives a fuck? just deal with it and stop crying about it, jeez!

ugh. 

but she’s watching this guy train, for some reason, and he’s bellowing and she thinks this entire idea (that she totally didn’t have because why would she  _ ever  _ do this willingly) has already failed because fucking hell, he’s so loud! ugh! 

“you should train with me, saionji!” he yells and  _ yuck,  _ no thanks. he keeps going, though, “gotta get those muscles working! gotta break a sweat on this wonderful day! gotta work hard, eat hard, sh-”

she cuts him off because she knows that wherever that’s going is going to make her want to throw herself into a fire. “the weather is shit and i’m not going to train with you,” she says bluntly, kicking her feet in the sand. “and i don’t sweat!”

“we all sweat!” he argues.

“yeah, well, i’m not a disgusting pig, so i don’t!” she replies triumphantly. she sees an ant and squishes it. ants don’t belong on beaches. 

she feels a bit bad, for some weird fucking reason, but she blames the weather for her being stupid. actually, no, she’s not stupid. nidai is. duh. 

nidai is being stupidly quiet, also, but eventually he  _ finally  _ says something-- which might not be a good thing, actually-- and he asks, “do you get out your emotions through dancing, saionji?”

she rolls her eyes. “i do traditional dance, headass.”

“but people call your performances emotional!” he grins  _ stupidly,  _ “so you gotta feel, right? gotta get that release! gotta-”

“the only people who call my performances emotional are old men who like seeing little girls spin around,” she deadpans. and then she pauses. well. shit. “uh, i mean-”

nidai doesn’t falter, but he looks a bit sadder. which is  _ bullshit,  _ because he didn’t experience it, dammit, so why would he- “how d’ya get your emotions out, then?”

she shrugs, pressing her thumb into the sand again. “squish, squish.”

silence. she could hear cicadas. or crickets. or some dumbass poetic shit like that.

“alright, saionji!” nidai says eventually. well, he actually just yells it, because he’s stupid. “we gotta work to improve that!”

“no we don’t,” she grumbles. 

why try to change shit when it’s not gonna work? 

nidai doesn’t reply. thank fuck. she almost thought he was gonna keep pressing, which would have been a disaster. 

but also, the slightly sad face he’s making isn’t much better, either.

well, whatever. doesn’t matter.

none of this shit really does to her.

\--

it’s only 2 PM, and hinata already wants to give up and go to bed. because, see, it’s one of  _ those _ days where hinata shoves his hand in his hair out of frustration and fails to tune komaeda out when he says in a voice far too chipper, “your hair is spiky!” and it’s just  _ one of those days. _

he sighs, deeply, tiredly, “yes, it appears it is,” because there’s not much else to do with this conversation.

they’ve been over this. hinata doesn’t know what the point is-- the point of komaeda repeatedly bringing it up, anyway. he liked the long ebony locks of his former master (probably for that very reason, if komaeda is sentimental about despair times), but he also has taken great pleasure in likening hinata’s hair to a pineapple. to reiterate, hinata doesn’t understand what the point in this mild intrigue is, but it’s not that much of an annoyance. 

komaeda, himself, is not much of an annoyance. well, correction: he is both the  _ most annoying person fathomable  _ and the  _ only damn thing that makes hinata feel not-annoyed.  _ it’s a confusing position for a person to be in. it’s probably the only reason kamukura is so fascinated with him. and, well, hinata likes komaeda for it. but saying that to komaeda would be worse than confessing to literal murder.

(komaeda would probably get very excited if hinata killed someone. that’s… an interesting thought.)

anyway-- he is here right now. he’s here and he has a migraine and komaeda is calling his hair spiky. and hinata isn’t really okay. which komaeda has noticed, because his eyebrows are furrowed and his head is slightly tilted to the side. fantastic. 

in a practiced movement, komaeda rises to his feet, approaching hinata from where he sits on an unmade bed. he kneels in front of him-- and neither hinata or kamukura have the strength to tell him to work harder on not returning to his own methods, because there will be no commands today, never again-- and lifts his artificial hand to cup his cheek, stroking the skin with keratin fingers. if he moves his hand up a little, he’ll find the scars that prove that hinata is not himself and never will be again. but that is not komaeda’s purpose.

(thank god for that. thank god that hinata can  _ read  _ him, even just a  _ bit _ , which may not be impressive because he is partially an ultimate analyst, but even with that talent it’s really, really fucking hard to understand what the fuck komaeda is doing at any given time. 

right now, though, komaeda isn’t trying to make a point. he can figure that out.)

instead, komaeda holds his face, his touch startlingly gentle, and watches with macabre fascination as hinata leans into the touch, closing his heterochromatic eyes and hoping he can at least have  _ this,  _ whatever  _ this  _ is. and to himself, komaeda lets out a quiet, “huh.”

the two of them remain there for a few moments more.

(and hinata does give up and go to bed at 4 PM, the exact time accessible to him but unnecessary. the important thing is that he goes to bed and komaeda comes with him, curled against his side, komaeda  _ stays _ .

even when hinata has to get up suddenly to go to a secluded place on the island, to accept a call from naegi, to stay there for a few days. because he knows that when he returns, komaeda will stay.)

\--

“the future foundation is appointing us all one therapist, who is going to be calling us in a week from now.”

the clinically simple statement comes from hinata one morning, his face empty, if not silently agitated, and he does not elaborate much more as he retrieves a few slices of bacon and a hard-boiled egg. around him, hanamura has stilled, owari has quirked her head, komaeda has smiled widely, and saionji has muttered a quiet, “goddammit.”

nobody speaks, initially, but the silence is eventually breached by sonia, her voice slightly more professional than usual as she asks, “when did you discover this?”

“yesterday,” hinata responds with a shrug.

“huh,” akane thinks aloud, “so  _ that’s  _ where you were yesterday.”

“i was not with the future foundation,” he clarifies in a tone that reminds everyone of kamukura. they may switch soon, but the movements he makes are still agitated, so it’s hinata. for now. “i was just on a call with naegi.”

“how is naegi-kun?” komaeda asks brightly with a cheerful smile.

hinata blinks. “i mean, he’s-”

“okay, enough of that, what about these stupid therapists?” saionji interrupts, crossing her arms. “none of us  _ asked  _ for that bullshit, so why are they-”

“hiyoko,” koizumi warns. she places a hand on her shoulder, and saionji sighs a little, temporarily letting the topic go instead of pressing. 

“i don’t know why they’re giving us one,” hinata admits, “but i guess it would be good for us? to have a therapist?”

“still feels like bullshit,” kuzuryuu says under his breath. 

souda nudges his shoulder beside him. “nah. it might be good n’ shit.”

“self-improvement is key to a healthy lifestyle!” nidai adds. owari glances at him with a smile. 

“i-if i m-may?” tsumiki chimes in, waiting for hinata to nod before speaking. “h-how w-will w-we be c-c-called?”

“there’s a working phone in the motel,” hinata supplies. he cuts into his food, his voice blank and his words blunt. “just go there, i guess.”

saionji rolls her eyes. “how will we know  _ when,  _ dumbass?” 

“they’ll call me first.”

“so what, you’re going to run around the fucking island all day, telling us to go to the motel so we can call a stupid future foundation person?” she blows a raspberry. “that’s so stupid.”

“do you have a better idea?” hinata responds, cordial but with a dark undertone.

“yeah! how about we  _ don’t fucking do this _ ? i, for one, don’t need therapy!”

“we were in a killing game, saionji. i think we all need therapy.”

“hinata-san, please do not refer to the killing game so bluntly,” sonia requests.

he throws his hands up. “fine. sorry. i’ll figure out more shit, alright? i’ll let you guys know.” he stands up, throwing away the small piece of toast left on his plate and shoving the silverware into the sink, leaving the dining hall immediately after. without a beat of hesitation, komaeda jumps out of his seat and follows, likely trying to counter hinata’s mood or, conversely, see what could happen if pushed further. saionji leaves, too, and koizumi follows her, and soon everyone filters out.

tsumiki, sonia, and tanaka are the last ones left.

“i dislike those foundation thralls,” tanaka states, his fists curled and his eyes ashen. sonia pats him on the shoulder, and he seems to sway from the touch. “i dislike this idea, however… perhaps he is right.”

“i-it might b-be good,” tsumiki squeaks quietly. she’s right, though, and she’s aware of it.

sonia nods approvingly. “it will be good.”

out of fifteen people, twelve attended. when asked, saionji scoffed and rolled her eyes, komaeda smiled and shrugged, and kuzuryuu glanced away without an answer. however, the following week, thirteen people attend. then twelve. then fourteen. eight. ten. twelve. thirteen. twelve. fourteen. 

and soon, all fifteen accept the hour-long session of treatment and hopeful recovery.

and  _ soon,  _ this becomes the regular.

\--

“y’know, sonia, i was thinkin’ about somethin’ in therapy the other day.”

sonia raises her eyebrows at owari with a smile, tilting her head. “oh?”

owari’s eyes shuffle around the beach, her hands restlessly digging themselves into the sand. she kicks the water that covers her sockless feet and sonia notes, here, that she feels very alive. she always does, really-- owari is a source of endless energy and comfort-- but… there’s something about seeing her in the moonlight, even when she’s hesitating, even when their talks turn serious, that sonia admires a lot. she wants to reach out and touch her hair.

she refrains.

owari speaks up, again. “so, like, i was just thinkin’, y’know, i’ve never really felt  _ safe _ .”

and this is not something she understands.

“i apologize, owari-san,” sonia says earnestly, softly.

she waves her off, gives her a grin. “nah, s’okay. was just gonna tell you that. i think my childhood, like, fucked me up a bit. dunno. feel hungry all the time. feel exposed all the time. so i move quick, y’know? i bounce around so people can’t get me. gotta be faster than ‘em.”

… hm.

sonia’s voice is more serious when she promises, “owari-san, i will protect you.”

owari stares at her for a second, incredulous. “huh?”

she smiles, and she feels quite emotional for some strange reason. she reaches out, now, to grab owari’s hand in hers. it’s larger and warmer and it’s comforting-- especially when owari’s fingers curl around hers. she repeats with the strength she has now, “i will protect you. it is a princess’s promise.”

“damn, can’t fuck with a princess’s promise, huh?” she grins wider, genuinely. it makes sonia smile even brighter. “i’ll protect you too, sonia.”

she laughs a little. “i don’t need protection.” she’s always had it, and she betrayed it. she can work on her own. she always has, too. being royalty is an oxymoron few understand. perhaps she should ask kamukura, with his acquired ultimate prince talent, about it. in any case, she focuses on owari’s comment. hm.  _ does  _ she need protecting? has owari noticed an issue, is there a matter to be fixed? should sonia try to be more discreet about matters? is something wrong? is-

“come back to me, sonia,” and sonia realizes she’s been zoning out for a while. she opens her mouth to apologize, but owari already begins to speak again. “c’mon, i wanna show you somethin’.”

“oh?” her voice is more cracked, this time.

owari doesn’t stop grinning, standing up and squeezing sonia’s hand. “there’s a pretty area of the beach with some nice seashells, so i thought someone as pretty as you would like it too. c’mon.”

sonia allows herself to be led to the place, watching owari with gentle eyes and thinking, however sappy it may be,  _ she really does look beautiful like this. _

\--

tsumiki never thought anybody would want to be around her for longer than they had to,

and yet, pekoyama and mioda visit her every day.

the infirmary is cold. it’s filled with medicines and injections and pill bottles that tsumiki almost wants to take at once-- but she refrains. whether it’s an act of self-preservation or professionalism, she isn’t sure, but she keeps herself busy with latex gloves to avoid the taunts coming from shelves stocked with medication.  _ xanax, ibuprofen, lisinopril, acetaminophen, abraxane…  _

and sometimes, she is kept busy by pekoyama and mioda as well. the former stands politely, assists when tsumiki needs help disinfecting for the thousandth time that day or re-organizing the medicines, but she mostly stays quiet and observes. mioda, instead, drapes herself over the cot and sings to tsumiki, calling the two of them pretty and giggling when they blush in response. sometimes, she opens her arms wide and pulls tsumiki in, and embraces always scared her in the past because she hates the feeling of unfamiliar hands on her body placating her, 

but mioda is familiar and mioda is safe, and she kisses her forehead and calls her beautiful and pekoyama, somewhere in the room, calls out in assent.

it makes tsumiki cry, the first time. cry and deny it, and mioda frowned a little but just held her tighter. it’s surprising, being beautiful, not being a person to occupy space. being  _ forgiven,  _ even after always being blamed (for no reason or every reason) ever since she was born. it’s difficult to cope with this idea that she can be  _ loved,  _ but over time, tsumiki begins to accept it, and pekoyama says she’s proud of her and it’s safe, safe, safe in the little infirmary where she practically met her death so long ago.

(one day, mioda looks her in the eyes and says, “i forgive you,” and tsumiki sobs carried over to the next island.)

soon, she is rarely alone in that sickeningly white room, and it’s the first time she’s been close-to-okay since she’s been born.

\--

“my dad was a piece of shit.”

souda gapes at kuzuryuu for a moment before snorting, giving him a toothy smile. “that’s a hell of a conversation starter, dude.”

kuzuryuu shoves his arm. “shut up.” after a few seconds, he adds, “it’s true, though. the whole yakuza business? fuckin’ sucks.”

“you’re usually not this vulnerable,” souda observes, which he isn’t really great at because he doesn’t understand shit about people because they aren’t machines. duh. kuzuryuu isn’t a machine. he’s, like, the realest person ever. and he’s great. a fuckin’ delight, honestly. but that’s a whole thing. “what’s up, man?”

“i’m probably just being stupid,” he mutters. souda’s grin flickers at the surprisingly sad look on kuzuryuu’s face. “just, ugh. like, fuck the therapy, alright? i didn’t go to, like, half of the calls. and i still probably won’t. but, the lady was talking to me and, like, i feel as if i might have a lot of shit. from being a yakuza, y’know? from watching my parents fight, almost dying cuz they fight, because only yakuzas bring a fuckin’ gun to an argument over dinner, and the shrink said that it’s fucking me up. because apparently, even though it’s true as hell, feeling like a piece of shit isn’t normal. which is crazy, y’know?” he finishes with a half laugh that’s completely forced.

souda frowns, a bit. “nah, dude, that’s not normal. and, like, that’s also not true at all. you’re fuckin’ dope as shit. you’re my soul bro, y’know?”

kuzuryuu raises his eyebrow. “i thought hinata was your soul bro?”

“yeah, he’s my soul bro, but you’re like my  _ soul  _ bro, ya feel me?”

“what?” 

“forget it,” souda sighs. he hates carrying the brain cell between them. “point is, you’re the coolest! and you’re tough ‘n brave ‘n kind ‘n cute ‘n a fuckin’ delight, dude!” he says with a lot of enthusiasm. it dies when he realizes he called kuzuryuu cute, but like, he is. so… yeah! bros can call other bros cute without it being gay even if they are gay, right? 

kuzuryuu doesn’t comment on the cute thing, fortunately, but he does sigh and say, “i’m none of that, souda,” which was the worst outcome, honestly. “like, i appreciate it, but i literally fuckin’ killed people.”

“dude, didn’t we all?”

“i’m not talking remnant shit, i’m talking, like, i killed before i had a  _ motive  _ to do it.”

“you had a motive,” souda says matter-of-factly. “impressin’ your family. or, like, makin’ your dad proud ‘n shit. i did the same shit with my dad.”  _ cuz if i didn’t, my dad would beat me up, ‘n i get the feelin’ that while you didn’t do that shit, somethin’ else happened, cuz we all saw the seppuku thing and- _

he stares at him. “... really?”

“yeah.”

kuzuryuu looks into the distance a bit, which is weird but also kinda endearing but also kinda worrying and for some reason souda wants to, like, hug him or something, but that would not be well received, probably. still. he wants to help. and sometimes, he gets scared he can’t help enough, that he makes it worse, that kuzuryuu is just gonna leave him behind.

but this thought process gets cut off, thank god, by kuzuryuu repeating, quietly, “yeah.”

and that feels like kind of a conversation ender.

(but souda still grabs his hand. or maybe kuzuryuu grabs his. or maybe they both cling to each other. but whatever the order of events is, it happens, and it makes shit feel a little less heavy.)

\--

kamukura dislikes the noise of this place. 

he can hear the whirr of machinery. he can hear the ticking of a clock. he can hear the footsteps of someone outside. he can hear laughter that scrapes at his ears. he can hear the sound of mioda flicking a guitar string and sticking her tongue out as she attempts to tune it. 

kamukura has a more effective way to tune an instrument, but he is too consumed in the noise to attempt to help. he is also unwilling to speak. not today. not since he woke up in hinata’s body at precisely 4:27 AM with no discernable task or purpose for fronting. he also has a migraine, partially induced by the noise, partially induced by hinata’s chronic condition of dealing with them. he has taken medication, however…

in any case, he is uncertain why he is here. mioda was very adamant about seeking him out, and he deduced that this would be equally as boring as any other possible way he could spend his time. it at least gives him a moment away from komaeda, who has been actively pining for his attention but too stubborn to state so. as is his nature, due to his role of being a servant and the effect of his disastrous luck. however, komaeda is not presently here. mioda is. he will appease her and carry on with his day.

(mioda is also, oddly enough, not afraid of kamukura.)

mioda speaks for the first time since 9.76 seconds ago, her voice loud and eager. “does kamukura-chan like death metal?”

he does not hesitate. “i have the talent to suit this taste accordingly.”

she frowns. “but do you  _ like  _ it?”

“i do not like anything.”

“hmmm,” she ponders out loud for no necessary reason, tapping her chin. after 2.94 seconds, her eyes light up and she says, “ooooh, i can play you a song!”

“fine,” he states plainly. he has already deduced that the chord progression will be f#min-bmin7-c#min7-G#m7b5. he knows that the song is titled  _ drinking red bull in a warehouse while you scream fuck yeah!  _ and he also knows that mioda, ideally, would like there to be a percussionist who could play alongside her, as she prefers the guitar 89% of the time. there is no interest in this. no intrigue. no excitement. 

she still seems exuberant, however, and she grabs her guitar with practiced fingers. “okay okay okay! this is  _ drinking red bull in a warehouse while you scream fuck yeah!  _ dedicated to kamukura-chan!” that is an intriguing detail, at least. “ahem! let’s goooooo!” she shouts one more time, readying her fingers on the f#min chord.

while he knows the melody of the song already, as well as the fact that she will mess up on the 75th measure’s third beat, he closes his eyes and listens, anyway. 

… it is a distraction, at least. and it does sound different in her voice than in his head.

that is something.

\--

hanamura is the one sitting beside owari when she’s kneeled over the toilet, throwing up.

an interesting choice in companion, an outsider to the situation might say. why would hanamura be there? hanamura and owari aren’t  _ friends _ , really, nobody is really  _ friends  _ with hanamura (for good reason, given what he’s done), but there’s a pretty simple answer here. hanamura is here and he  _ was  _ there, in the kitchen, when owari set down her half-finished plate and ran in here. he knows what food poisoning looks like, and he knows it’s not  _ that.  _ but there’s no sudden reason for her to go to the bathroom, nobody goes to use the bathroom or mas- nobody goes in there so  _ suddenly _ .

except, it turns out, if they’re throwing up.

he doesn’t ask why. he doesn’t ask because he’s surprised, because he’s worried, but he knows this isn’t shit he can understand or really press on. he just waits, patting her back awkwardly for all of thirty minutes, not really trusting himself but doing it anyway. he sticks around even when she starts crying, and he  _ could  _ grab sonia, but he doesn’t want to leave owari like this.

when owari finally speaks, she is quiet. scared. timid. “sorry you had to see it.”

hanamura shrugs. “it’s fine. why d’ya do it?” he asks with some hesitation.

she doesn’t look at him as she stands up, rinsing her mouth out with water and flushing the toilet with her elbow. as she’s leaving the bathroom (him following), she finally offers the reply, “i don’t know how to handle it. how to keep it inside me.” she shoots him a toothy grin before she leaves, forcing out the words, “i’m fine, though,” and stepping out of the building.

hanamura has no clue what to say, but he still stands in the hallway between the bathroom and the kitchen for ten minutes, thinking it over.

\--

she should have anticipated a relapse, honestly. this happens with most medical conditions-- recovery occurs before there’s a stagnation, a return to the place it was before all the improvement happened. she knows she can still get better after this, that this isn’t the end of the process towards happiness, but it is slightly disappointing, to be ejected from peace to  _ this  _ state of mind where all she can think is  _ despair despair despair. _

normally, she handles negative emotions alone. as a remnant, she was fairly isolated-- she only stayed by enoshima, after all-- and even after, even  _ now,  _ she finds it easier to handle when nobody is worried over her. people aren’t supposed to be worried over  _ her.  _ it’s meant to be the other way around. but, well, there is a surplus of people worried  _ about  _ her, about what she will do when she’s in despair, because even if most people have forgiven her, there is still a wariness that is palpable, a fear that locks her in the places she can fit herself, the spaces she  _ allows  _ herself to  _ breathe  _ in.

however, the space she’s in  _ now  _ is not a place where she is alone. because instead of getting the strength to leave this part of the beach where the wind is cold and the sand is secluded-- she just  _ sits  _ as komaeda joins her. komaeda, who doesn’t like her very much. komaeda, who doesn’t trust her. komaeda, who doesn’t trust anyone. komaeda, who is relapsing into despair as well.

(from a clinical perspective, she wonders if he’s ever  _ not  _ relapsing.)

she stops her nurse-like worry-- because she does have it, even if it’s for a single moment, she’s been taught this, of  _ course  _ she’s like this-- because komaeda, now, is rocking back and forth, his arms around his knees, his legs pulled up to his chest, and his voice is wracked with laughter when he taunts, “oh, isn’t it so  _ despairing _ ?”

“shut up,” is her immediate response. she would never tell him to leave, not explicitly, because there is something almost  _ beautiful  _ about partners in misery (or, enoshima would think this, she would touch tsumiki’s cupid bow and whisper  _ isn’t despair gorgeous  _ and her heart would flutter because she always thought the manipulative woman was talking about  _ her _ -) but she is still  _ aggravated  _ at him, how he laughs at despair, how he hates everyone, how he hates himself. how every second, he has to push someone towards the edge, how nobody is quite certain that he won’t fling himself off a cliff tomorrow. 

and maybe it’s rude of her to hate him for it, but she’s so  _ exhausted,  _ and she wants to grab him by the shoulders and scream at him to get better, to take care of himself, but he would just smile or maybe kick her or maybe drown himself and there’s nothing she can do to  _ stop it-  _ because he always  _ reminds her  _ that she’s out of control, and goddammit, she  _ cares  _ about him but right now she’s despairing and she cares about nothing other than the idea of  _ hurting something again.  _

he giggles at her response, and she fucking hates the sound of it, but she just waits for him to say the words she expected. “ah, i’m  _ terribly  _ sorry, tsumiki-san!” he chirps. “someone as worthless as me has no right to talk rudely to someone like you! ah, but, maybe i’m being selfish, but-- are we not in the same pathetic place?” she grits her teeth and he doesn’t stop. “we’re  _ despairing!  _ we’re really quite alike! we both  _ loved  _ her-- we both  _ hated  _ her! except, well, you used your despair to do that-- despair! and i used mine for hope. or, at least, i tried! you’re being quite hopeful now, though! i’m almost impressed, ehe, your performance in the neo world program was  _ truly- _ ”

“what the fuck do you want from me?” she deadpans, her voice unable to conceal the spite and annoyance she feels. “if you’re just trying to remind me of the past, well done. i already do that. we all do. except, we’re trying to move on. and you-”

“i’m truly lowly garbage who clings to the past!” he interrupts, and she glares at him. komaeda shrugs light-heartedly. “this is why i tell you all to give up on me, haha! i’m going to die soon, and yet you and hinata-kun-- and even kamukura-kun, how  _ despairing _ \-- are trying to save me. except, you can’t keep me from death! the two of us are bound, ehe. there’s such  _ hope  _ in death, don’t you think?” she doesn’t reply, so he leans forward and looks at her with clear eyes and a wide, maniacal smile. “you would know, wouldn’t you? after all, you  _ did  _ kill people, right? something had to keep you doing it. something had to make you  _ tick. _ ”

“i didn’t kill for hope,” she explains as if komaeda is a child, as if komaeda is her  _ patient,  _ as if komaeda would ever  _ let  _ himself be a  _ patient.  _ “i killed for despair. you’re the only person who thinks death is hopeful.” 

he spreads his arms wide out. “there’s so much hope on this island! dishevelled appearances-” she tucks a lock of violet hair behind her ear before he can comment on it, “-night terrors, misery! and yet,  _ recovery _ ! you all will take your dying bodies, decaying minds, and you will  _ grow _ ! the hope will blossom like wildflowers, it’ll grow strong and poignant and  _ beautiful. _ that’s what i live for!”

“you don’t include yourself in it,” she comments idly, more fascinated with the water in front of her than the grating sound of komaeda’s voice.

“of course! because i am not  _ hope! _ the closest thing to pure  _ hope  _ i have seen is hinata-kun, --kamukura-kun, too-- and i am his  _ despair,  _ aren’t i? wooing his purity with her foul pride,” he quotes; from what, she is unsure. “i am the despair that keeps this island  _ alive _ . i am all the infections that the sun sucks up. i am  _ myself,  _ and i am not hope _. _ ”

“we could live without you,” she admits bluntly. his smile widens, but it does flicker when she continues, just as coolly, “but there’s a reason we haven’t. kamukura could kill you, but he hasn’t. hinata probably could, but he hasn’t. for fuck’s sake, i could, but i haven’t. there’s a reason for that shit. and you don’t keep the island alive. this damned place is as dead as it always is.”

for a moment, he is silent. she’s grateful for it. when he opens his mouth to finally speak and she prepares herself for more idiocy, the two of them hear the sound of an electric guitar, of pekoyama’s infrequent but discernible laugh. they can’t be far away. and yet, she hesitates to stand up and see her lovers. 

komaeda smirks. “the thane of fife had a wife. where is she now?”

she stands up, rolling her eyes and brushing sand off of her shorts, leaving scars exposed openly. despair times, despair times. “does hinata like your shakespeare? does he humor you for hours? do the two of you flirt in the speak of dead people?”

his smile twists. “hinata-kun hates me. that’s the difference between you and your abundance of partners, of friends-- and i.” his eyebrow raises at nothing. “i’m sure mioda-san and pekoyama-san would listen to you mutter incomprehensible lines of poetry for  _ hours _ . me? i am hardly worth a second. banquo did not listen closely to the prophecy-- it will be rain tonight, let it come down, and thus banquo  _ dies _ , as will hinata-kun-- how do i expect others to? how do i expect hinata-kun to? for someone he loathes so deeply, someone he would never call his,” he rambles, practically a shakespearean soliloquy, though- “haha, i lack the iambic pentameter to make a point, maybe. only pages and servants speak so recklessly. hinata-kun would hate me, still, even if i spoke like the macbeth i am.”

she has no idea what the madman speaks of, now. however, before she leaves, she offers him a caustic smile and says in a sickly sweet voice she has learned to recite, “aren’t you his despair? how ever could hinata live without his precious, sickly, little  _ despair _ ?” she presses, even when she sees komaeda’s smile fall. “how will his hope  _ shine  _ without you? aren’t you so  _ important _ ? aren’t you so  _ useful _ ? shouldn’t we  _ love _ our despair? hold hands with it, sit with it in the dining hall, treat it, sleep beside it? shouldn’t hinata sleep with his despair, hold it when it screams,  _ fall in love  _ with it? hey, komaeda,  _ doesn’t hinata love you? _ ”

tsumiki turns to walk away, finished with her testament and exhausted of the rhetorics. as her back faces the ocean, her eyes focused on seeing mioda and pekoyama, she can hear him scathingly whisper, “ _ fuck you. _ ”

\--

if anybody makes a single comment about kuzuryuu holding hands with souda in jabberwock park, watching the sunset, they would be killed on sight.

this is one of the many thoughts kuzuryuu has while doing this very thing.

for the most part, their ‘date’ has progressed in silence. which is not the best thing, honestly, but he doesn’t really want to tell souda that. he never likes silence except sometimes maybe when it’s with souda or pekoyama, but right now he’s thinking about a lot. like, for example, how he’s in this situation. going on a ‘date’ with souda, a ‘date’ that he can hardly think of as such because that’s kind of the root of his problem. the problem being: he’s gay. and, like, he’s pretty sure that’s not okay.

alright, to be clear, he has a  _ lot  _ of other issues he’s working through. trauma, crippling self esteem issues (that still take him off guard because  _ wow _ ), and, like, dealing with the fact that he went through a killing game and caused mass terror upon the world. but also, the issue of being gay (which isn’t  _ really _ an issue, but, y’know) is what’s fucking with him right now.

he’s gay, but he’s not really. supposed to be. 

he was there when souda, in all his glory, came out to everyone at lunch, saying with a bright grin, “i’m gay!” it took people by surprise, imaginably-- sonia was confused by it, which is fair-- but once everyone got over the initial shock of him coming out in the middle of eating a chicken wing, they reacted pretty well to it. meaning, some people congratulated him and some people were lackluster in their approval. for example, hinata, clutching his head as if it’ll handle his migraine, offered an exhausted thumbs up while komaeda rambled on and on beside him about how  _ hopeful  _ souda was. eventually, mioda saved souda from all that, telling him instead about this new song she’s writing,

and kuzuryuu just. stood there.

because the thing is, as previously established, kuzuryuu is really gay for him. and he’s not an idiot. he can tell that souda is really gay for him back. but, like, he can’t really  _ be  _ in a gay relationship. he’s not sure why, but he just. can’t. 

but he’s not very good at deflecting shit. like, he can hide his emotions and stuff (has to, really, to survive), but when it comes to something like  _ this,  _ for some reason, he fucks up. it’s a weakness. like, a really big weakness.

so when souda squeezes his hand and asks what’s wrong, kuzuryuu’s knee-jerk response is to say, entirely too loudly and matter-of-factly, “i’m gay for you.”

souda gapes at him, and kuzuryuu already has his funeral planned and knows who is going to do what speech and knows how to hide the body and (he hates funerals) but then souda says, with so much eagerness it’s endearing, “dude, me too!” 

and what is kuzuryuu meant to do with that?

cool thing about self hatred: you start fucking fighting your own thoughts. cuz like, kuzuryuu would  _ love  _ to date souda and stuff, but also he’s like. not good enough for him? so there’s this weird duality to it and damn, there must be something fucked up in this island breeze because kuzuryuu is a fucking disaster. so he says, as all flirty, casual people do, “i’m not good enough for you.”

with a shrug and a wider grin, souda squeezes his hand. “nah, ‘m not good enough for  _ you _ .”

kuzuryuu stares at him. “what, no. you’re great.”

“you’re also great,” souda points out. 

“yeah, sure, but the difference is  _ i’m not _ .”

“shut up and lemme date you, a’ight?”

he sighs. ugh. he  _ wants  _ this, but he’s  _ scared _ . would his sister have supported him? she gave off bisexual energy, but he could have been wrong-- it’s not like he can find out now-- and both his parents were homophobic so, like, maybe something is wrong with him. but also, he did cause mass genocide, so maybe this isn’t the worst thing he can do. maybe he deserves it. maybe he should just shut his thoughts up and go with this. so with a deep breath and a squeeze of souda’s slightly-sweaty hand (summer be damned), kuzuryuu says, “alright.”

and souda’s smile makes it all pretty much worth it.

\--

pekoyama rests her head on mioda’s bed and feels more comforted than she has in years.

this is partially attributed to the fact that tsumiki is curled against her side, arms wrapped around her waist and a bashful face pressed against pekoyama’s neck. mioda, too, is nearby; she’s propped up on her arm, holding tsumiki’s hand and nuzzling against pekoyama’s cheek. it’s so  _ warm,  _ so  _ secure  _ in their embraces, and it makes pekoyama feel a flurry of emotions she can hardly begin to comprehend.

one of them, a glaring truth, is love.

mioda voices this as soon as the thought comes to pekoyama’s mind, saying cheerfully, “i love you two!” and pecking both their cheeks to emphasize her point. 

tsumiki blushes, buries herself further against pekoyama’s side, and stutters out, “i l-love y-y-you too!” her voice is soft in the gentle, loving air,

and pekoyama can distinguish the scent of cotton candy and bananas, as well as the light undercurrent of antiseptic. it’s an unusual mix, but it’s a combination that lulls her to sleep.

before she lets herself go, though, she whispers to the ceiling she stares at (not out of boredom, not out of stagnant sadness, just this  _ gentle  _ feeling that’s overwhelming, this  _ idea  _ that she can be loved like this, that she has deserved this) “i love you both.”

mioda beams. “i love you too!”

pekoyama gives a tiny smile, pressing her temple into the linen pillowcase and finding that the idea of sleep isn’t scary, not right now. because tsumiki is as light as gossamer, her embrace tight in all the places pekoyama  _ needs  _ it to be, and mioda is bright and affectionate and if anything happened, right now, pekoyama thinks she could survive it.

and thus her eyes flutter shut and she feels a kiss against her hair, and she doesn’t have a single nightmare.

\--

owari’s never had a picnic before.

it’s not really something she  _ needs  _ to have, y’know? it’s cool, and she likes eating really good food on a checkered blanket as birds chirp and butterflies fly around, looking at a really pretty girl who still folds a napkin over her lap (and maybe her appearance is circumstance specific, y’know, but owari can’t really imagine any picnic without it). but, still, it’s never something she sat down at age eight and thought  _ i need this _ . she never, like, got that chance. she never had enough time to long for something else.

but this picnic is really cool, and she’s ultimately pretty fucking glad sonia asked her to come out here. sonia’s used to  _ really  _ sell everyone on this idea of a group picnic, but most of this was done back when seeing everyone at lunch was a  _ treat _ , so she gave up. but it’s a pretty good idea, honestly, and owari would be down to do it with the others.

it carries a softly romantic tone with sonia, though. something she couldn’t really  _ get _ with her other friends.

sonia smiles brightly, opening up the traditional bento boxes she made for this. she starts eating pretty quickly, the way that she always does; dabbing at the corner of her mouth, waiting until she’s done swallowing to speak, taking even breaks between eating. owari, instead, moves like a  _ wildfire,  _ scarfing down the entire meal before pausing. 

she’s sure sonia’s laughter comes from her enthusiasm, not particularly anything  _ about  _ owari eating that much, but still she-

she remembers enoshima used to ridicule her. she remembers that once the despair bitch died, she stopped eating. and now, she keeps trying to  _ forget _ , but she looks at this good food and eats all of it and then it starts to  _ sink in  _ and she-

she takes a deep breath, and sonia notices the difference. reaching out with a hand like porcelain, she asks sweetly, “is everything alright, owari-san?”

and owari isn’t sure how to  _ tell her _ , but she kind of  _ wants  _ to. so she sighs and scratches the back of her neck, mumbling, “i need to tell ya somethin’.” sonia doesn’t say anything, simply nodding and tilting her head to the side a bit, her long almost-heavenly hair brushing the grass, and owari manages to say, “i have this, like, issue.”

“oh?” sonia sets down the food, moving around the blanket to be beside owari. she holds both her hands tight in her own and smiles encouragingly at her. “what is it?”

owari lets go of one hand to curl that arm around sonia’s waist, pressing the side of her head against sonia’s hair. she’s not sure if this is too  _ intimate,  _ really, but sonia seems flusteredly happy at this and that’s enough to encourage owari to talk. “i have this issue with food. and… aw, fuck, it’s hard to talk ‘bout. gimme a sec,” she mutters, closing her eyes.

_ sonia won’t judge you. sonia won’t hate you. sonia won’t call you ugly. sonia won’t think you’re fat. _

“take all the time you need, owari-san.” sonia squeezes her hand. owari squeezes back.

“i have a, uh, disorder? the therapist chick called it that, anyway. and, uh, she said i should try’n tell people, and hanamura already knows but i thought i could, like, tell you?”

sonia nods. “i will listen, owari-san, and i will do whatever i can to support you.”

“i really like you,” owari blurts out. after a few seconds, she realizes that’s definitely not the play here, but she can’t really. stop herself. from admitting that. not when she’s so overwhelmed with this sudden, abrupt  _ fondness,  _ because  _ woah,  _ sonia gives a shit. and that’s more than anybody else ever has.

she doesn’t judge owari or view her in disgust. instead, with a bright smile spread across a beautiful face, she says, “i really like you too, owar-no, akane-san.” and that makes owari’s heart light up, really, even if she still feels a bit heavy from the whole food-confession thing.

owari grins. “thanks. uh, can i, y’know?” she doesn’t really want to talk about it, but maybe it’d help her, y’know. get it out there, figure it out.

sonia kisses her hand, gently. “go ahead.”

with a weak smile, owari takes a deep breath, and she tells sonia  _ everything _ . and through it all, sonia  _ stays. _

\--

hinata is kissing komaeda’s neck in the most careful way the two of them know when komaeda murmurs with a bright, bright smile, “i resent you.”

hinata pulls away, which komaeda  _ expected _ , really, but still pouts at. his heterochromatic eyes are swirling with a strange lack of emotion, a sort of abject apathy that results in a flat tonality to his voice, his marvelous tenor that speaks the word, “what.” in a way that is almost  _ spit  _ rather than  _ spoken.  _ it most certainly isn’t asked as a  _ question.  _

of course it wouldn’t be a question, really, because kamukura knows  _ everything _ . and they are together, now, aren’t they? two souls, practically rejecting each other, formed into the shape of a careworn man.

“i mean, hinata-kun,” komaeda repeats in an almost patronizing way, “that i  _ resent  _ you. that every piece of my dying body is filled with  _ hatred  _ towards you. that i truly, truly  _ loathe  _ you! and kamukura-kun as well, of course! my hatred for him is more real than his talent, haha!” komaeda considers wrapping his arms around hinata again, asking him to kiss his throat, maybe even tear  _ into  _ it, leaving a mess of a corpse on the bed-- but hinata would probably turn him down. 

how disappointing.

hinata blinks, his eyebrows furrowed with creases that are often present in his forehead. he really  _ should  _ relax, komaeda notes idly. maybe he could help him lose that tension, later. but that’s rather selfish, isn’t it? in any case, hinata is talking, now, so komaeda pays close attention. “komaeda, what the  _ fuck  _ are you talking about? we were literally just-” he waves his hand around the room, narrowing his eyes. the gesture really wasn’t necessary; komaeda  _ was  _ well aware that they were possibly going to have sex. “and, like, you just… out of the blue… what? am i supposed to make of that?”

“it really is quite simple, but if you’re struggling, i’m sure kamukura-kun can help you!” he chirps, leaning forward to cup hinata’s face. 

hinata shakes his head. “the issue isn’t the fact that you resent me. like, if you do, that’s cool. whatever. but this whole  _ i hate you but also want to kiss you  _ thing is what, like, confuses me. a lot. and, like, i get that you’re-” another hand gesture that’s rather unnecessary, really, “-like  _ that _ , but i really just want a straight answer here, komaeda. like. as honest and straightforward as you can handle. because i’m really  _ fucking  _ tired of guessing.”

“if hinata-kun is tired of me, he should have given up by now!” komaeda gently chides with a smile. 

the brunet rubs at his temples. “yeah, that? was  _ not  _ what i meant. and you know that.”

“i’m afraid you terribly overestimate how intelligent i am, hinata-kun. we both know i’m  _ dreadful _ at picking up social cues.”

“alright, fucking- drop it, okay? no point debating that one.” komaeda smiles wider and hinata almost looks  _ curious _ underneath all his stress _.  _ “here’s a question. why the fuck do you cling to me and act so fucking, i don’t know,  _ attached  _ to me-- when you actually hate me?”

komaeda hums, stroking his thumb against hinata’s cheek. “you know, hinata-kun,” he starts, his voice low and gentle, “if you  _ really  _ want a straight answer to that, you should  _ command  _ it.”

hinata  _ winces.  _ “yeah, no thanks. not doing that shit. not anymore.”

“would  _ kamukura-kun  _ do it?” his voice grows quieter as his smile grows terribly fond, soft in a way that he never is, not with a body of overgrown bones and translucent skin, and his pallor was less  _ vicious  _ in despair times, but now he looks like a  _ ghost _ \-- hinata still finds him endearing, at least.  _ beautiful,  _ maybe, if he wasn’t colored a vivid shade of lavender and dying grey. he leans in, a bit, when he whispers, “would he do it if i  _ begged _ ?”

and he takes  _ joy  _ in the way hinata throws his hand off. after a few seconds, though, hinata seems to regret it, looking a bit guilty. at  _ least  _ he doesn’t hold it again. instead, he stares at him blankly for a few seconds too long, and he immediately detects the shift when he hears the sound of his decisive, “no.”

he eagerly greets kamukura with, “hello, sir!” he really is excited to see him. kamukura is less stubborn, less  _ caring.  _ he has called komaeda pathetic in the past. he has left him behind (briefly; he always returned, for reasons he cannot discern) on a few occasions, so he is more likely to do so  _ now.  _ he is also more likely to hear out komaeda on what he wants to say. will face it with a cold rationality, not an exhausted, empathetic one.

“i have told you in the past not to refer to me as such,” he states coolly. “you cannot avoid this question much further. why you resent me, i can discern, but your behavior has always been too fickle for me to affirm any suspicions towards your motivations. however, these suspicions  _ are  _ present.” the slight lilt in his voice makes komaeda feel weak, more than he is as a fundamental person. “so it would be preferable you address them rather than carry on with this game, in all its ridiculous theatrics.”

“haha, kamukura-kun really is so intelligent and wonderful!” komaeda praises. kamukura’s expression does not falter from its typical neutrality (he  _ has  _ seen it shift before, back when he was his servant, but those times are far too precious to recall now in a moment so macabre, so darkly thistledown). komaeda continues, then, with his resolve still coursing in his fragile veins. “i would like to hear these suspicions, but  _ oh _ , it is so  _ selfish  _ of me to request something from someone as perfect as you. please, feel free to punish me!”

kamukura stares at him with a vacancy. “i am not going to play along with your desperate act. however, i will inform you of my suspicions. this being, you have some sort of affection for us, one that you detest. one that you have hidden for quite a while.” this _,_ hysterically enough, makes komaeda shiver, slightly. because kamukura, as always, is quite precise in his guesses, no matter how simple, and he is often _correct_. “under the reign of enoshima junko, you worshipped me with a fervent nature, as if i was a true beacon of hope, in your own words. the intimacy you pined for exceeded gospel, however. when in the neo world program, you treated hinata as a separate person from the rest of the group, even prior to understanding his identity of being talentless. even with this identity, you did not quite _hate_ him. rather, you hated _yourself_ , as you do now. however, now you do express hatred, despite having these affections for both of us. i am hesitant, admittedly, to say your thoughts in words. if i am wrong-- which i am fairly certain i am not-- it would be quite unfortunate to place the thought in both your and hinata’s head. if i am correct, making the decision to state it for you is not in our best interest.” he sounds dull, as if he didn’t carry out a vivisection of komaeda’s vital conflicts, of every piece of bittersweet _emotion_ held in his viscera, as if kamukura didn’t just strip him bare and naked and didn’t view him with a critical eye, as if everything may be possibly _fine_ after this point, as if kamukura isn’t disgusted by the implications set by his affirmed thesis.

it is this very trait that komaeda helplessly adores and deeply loathes. 

komaeda is not certain what to say after this. and thus, he forces a smile, finding it a more difficult task than it is typically, since he is now clawing through despair, and breathes out, “it will be rain tonight.”

had kamukura been an ordinary man, he would have glanced towards the windows they keep shut with thin curtains, thin as the bedsheets that litter a familiar hardwood floor, one komaeda has cried over a few times, yet enough that he would be surprised if the wood was not rotting from exposure to such melancholic rivulets. had kamukura been an ordinary man, he would have resigned long ago, wrapped almost-calloused fingers around komaeda’s neck and pressed on his windpipe long enough that imprints would be left for centuries. had kamukura been an ordinary man, komaeda would be dead, and komaeda would be falling in love with him and his spiky tawny hair, leaning over as he waits for him to awake, had they been ordinary men, he would-

kamukura replies, without missing a beat, “let it come down. i understand, komaeda,”

and komaeda forgets himself.

with an incredulous voice, almost  _ vulnerable,  _ he asks, “you know macbeth?” it takes a few moments for the stupidity to set in, for the realizations he should have had as a figure in the past to appear in spectral, decrepit imagery, and he almost wants to  _ laugh  _ but more than that, he wants to  _ sob.  _ it is with a strained voice that he gives into the former and spits out, mirthlessly, “you know  _ everything _ .”

and for the first time in his forfeit, despicable life, constantly pursued by a pestilence that he refers to, morosely, as  _ luck _ \-- for the first time in his miserable and yet hopeful life, a life he must  _ lift  _ with hopeful song so he can contain his despair, so he will not erupt as a fire that consumes everything and scars his hands,

for the first time in his sick,  _ sick  _ life, he is not sure if hinata or kamukura is speaking when he hears the words, echoing quietly: “i don’t know how to love you and keep you alive at the same time.”

and every screaming piece of komaeda falls silent as it shatters.

\--

when she sees him, she has to tighten her fists, adjust the camera eternally hanging around her neck. she has to take a few deep breaths (like her therapist said) and roll her shoulders back. she has to convince herself with each step-- ones that leave sand in their wake, and she idly wants to find a seashell-- that she can  _ handle  _ this. 

still, she is terrified as she calls out, “hey, kuzuryuu! can i… talk to you?”

it’s not that she hates kuzuryuu still. she’s never really _hated_ him. she understands, really, the spite that forced his hand, spite that shouldn’t have existed but she isn’t really _confused_ about. and she knows that _now,_ especially, he’s doing a lot better, and he’s still struggling a lot and he looks tired most of the time, but he’s _trying_ , which is good. and she doesn’t know a lot about this herself, but souda seems to have a pretty good effect on him. which is cool.

so it’s not like she hates kuzuryuu. it’s just, well, she isn’t sure if he hates  _ her.  _ it would be fair, really-- she was practically an accomplice in his sister’s  _ murder _ \-- but maybe, maybe he forgives her. she really hopes she does, though that’s something difficult to admit, really. she would understand if she was never forgiven. but she really  _ wants _ to be.

kuzuryuu looks over his shoulder, his eyebrow quirked up, and he shrugs before leaning back against a palm tree and staring at a piece of… something… in his hand. “sure,” he says casually, his voice not as heavily weighted as hers is sure to be. “what’s up, koizumi?” 

she walks up to him, keeping a respectful distance. and she wants to  _ stall,  _ really, so she scrunches her nose a little bit and gestures to whatever is in his hand. something metallic. “what’s that?”

he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a bark, like a  _ scoff _ , really, and he tells her, “it’s a piece of scrap metal. copper or somethin’. for souda. figured he would like it.”

“ah.” she nods a bit, crossing her freckled arms and looking at the metal. it’s when she’s staring at it, transfixed for no discernable reason other than the anxiety pumping in her heart, that she manages to say, “y’know, i forgive you.”

for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and she’s already panicking a bit, because maybe she needed some more tact, here, but her anxiety sort of stops in a not-good-abrupt-way when he replies, informally, “yeah. i forgive you too.”

“really?” she asks almost immediately. “i don’t- i don’t see why you  _ would _ . i… natsumi, i…” 

“yeah,” he sighs, and he looks even more tired in this light (or maybe this has nothing to do with angles, maybe he’s been this tired for a while and she just had to turn up the resolution). “i mean, i think we both failed her ‘n shit. no point in hating each other for it.” he sighs again, and he looks  _ desaturated _ ,

she wonders, then, when people stop looking like photographs to her.

“i don’t think you failed her,” she retorts with a bit of unease, her reassurance not as seamless as always. “but, um, yeah! i’m glad you forgive me, ‘cause i forgive you, too. and i forgive pekoyama.”

he lets out a huff of air she thinks is meant to sound like a laugh. “i’m not sorry about sato. i know i should be, that that’s the point of this, but i don’t… blame myself for it.”

“that’s fair,” she murmurs. “i would call myself a bit of a pacifist, y’know, but i don’t think… i can really say that. but, in any case, it wasn’t… the  _ best  _ move… but it makes sense. i don’t blame you for it. i don’t blame you at all.”

he nods a bit, shoving the metal into a pocket and putting his fists there as well. “listen, koizumi, i…” he hesitates a bit. “like, i don’t want to get deep ‘n shit, but just so you… yeah. since i’m a yakuza, i kind of… result to that. at first. it’s like a knee jerk reaction. someone fucks with the clan, you hurt ‘em. and sometimes you hurt them really fucking bad.” he closes his eyes. “and that doesn’t excuse shit, y’know? it’s not your fault that i can’t adjust to this fuckin’ world. not sato’s fault, either. it’s mine.”

“not really,” she responds, her voice a bit softer than she expected. “i don’t think you’re at fault for what your upbringing did, y’know?”

he laughs. “yeah, souda says that shit a  _ lot. _ ”

“listen to him.” 

“yeah.” his shoulders slump. “i’ll try.”

there’s a bit of silence, then, one that koizumi isn’t sure how to  _ break.  _ if this was pekoyama, she would seal this with an embrace, stiff arms around her waist as she clings tightly onto her fabric, lemongrass and ink. instead, this is kuzuryuu, who is scratching the back of his neck and shuffling on his feet, and the light hits him at a certain angle that makes the colors pop in his eyes, and she  _ almost  _ asks to take a picture but refrains. she doesn’t really know what to do, here, and she feels like she’s leaving things a bit incomplete, but there’s… not much else to say.

so she just gives him a small nod and turns on her heel. and she thinks that it’s alright to do that, to give that space, to figure things out. because they both have a  _ lot  _ to figure out. but they will.

they will.

\--

tanaka finds himself here often, kamukura has determined.

when the ultimate breeder cannot be located, there is an approximate 87% chance he will be found on the cliffside, overlooking the ocean. he is typically here at around 3 AM, and the time is currently 3:18. this leaves him in a partially nocturnal state, which certainly appeals to him and the dark energy he all but lusts for. his closest friend, sonia nevermind, is concerned about this, however. he would say something about her being illuminated and effervescent, his dark queen. 

kamukura does not care for this.

however, he is interested to see the thoughts that fill tanaka’s head, despite his ability to interpret most of them through nonverbal cues. he can see, now, that tanaka is anxious (the shifting of his body and the movement of his trembling hands signifies this) and that he is, conversely, auspicious (his eyes are still alit and he has a slight smile on his impassive face). however, identifying feelings and thoughts is one matter, but experiencing and witnessing them is another. 

(he has seen many emotions, reactions, and thoughts in the past. he has seen ridicule, fear, and intrigue from scientists, which quickly escalated to annoyance when they determined that he would, in fact, bite at them if they attempted to touch his face. a brief moment later, he saw amusement, affection, and heartlessness in a woman that helplessly adored him as she adored despair. he was bored, instead. after, then-- worship, lust, and misery from a servant that stayed at his side despite it all. that, in fact, was one of the only times in his life that he did, in fact, feel something-- though he could not determine what it was.

the point of this endless stream of thought is that kamukura izuru has seen many emotions, reactions, and thoughts in the past-- and yet, he feels  _ nothing _ . transference does not apply to him, which is quite interesting when compared so starkly to hinata’s empathy and compassion for those around him. it is almost irritating, this, but…

kamukura is discovering  _ some  _ emotion. neurotransmitters that have previously disappointed him still continue to do so, as these emotions are not exactly  _ distinctive.  _ however, he did not leave mioda as she played for him. he did not cast away servant in despair times and he refuses to leave behind komaeda now. and, of course, he did not ignore tanaka, standing on the cliffside.)

before he can make his appearance known, tanaka speaks. “your aura is akin to the devils of hell, those with enough will to bypass the scorching coals, despite their ways of scarring you. some would claim it does not ache-- a perjury, certainly-- but you remain unwavering. for that, i can respect you.”

kamukura does not hesitate in mentally noting this but verbally discarding it. “hello, supreme overlord of ice,” he addresses neutrally, as this is how tanaka prefers to be addressed. he has learned this with experience, as this is the fourth time he has spoken to tanaka. the impressions have hardly changed from the first encounter. regardless, tanaka dislikes his surname, and thus kamukura complies.

it is interesting enough, at least.

“the wind is quiet,” tanaka comments in a way that is not disjointed by following thought. he spreads his arms out-- whether it be a beckon or a mimic of angelic wings, he is not certain and does not care to discern-- and states, louder, “there is a call from the heavens. a whisper of a prophecy, lacking rhythm or rhyme but still endlessly present in the gallop of lithe stallions. it is a heartbeat that litters tremors in the sea of indigo, a streak of paint in a star-shattered sky. as a mouthpiece, i am left the responsibility to repeat it, but the thought is terrifying. i selfishly wonder, here, standing where my casket may lay, if i am not reduced to ash-- why must i bear this alone? why am i, the damned child of heaven and hell, the only one to speak this? it is sickening, this burden, and yet… a blessing. do you understand, mortal-masked devil?”

“yes.” kamukura does not hesitate. stripped of flowery language and abstract metaphor, tanaka’s meaning is quite simple. 

tanaka relaxes, his body previously tensed in a way that could have left him trembling, had he not been more careful. in a quiet ghost of a voice (a vacancy-- kamukura understands this better, surprisingly, than calculations of decibels or tonality) he whispers, “the angels speak of a time where the sea will never part, the sky will never break into glorious hues, and the ground will never settle beneath the beat of fifteen bodies. and yet, they speak of a peace, a hope, perhaps. auspicious flowers will bloom and live through the winter, daisies and irises and perhaps zinnia. and we will create a paradise, here, and we will be secure despite our seclusion. they speak of a time where the rivers will quake and the islands will tremble and the humans will shake through the words--  _ it will be okay _ .” tanaka allows a rivulet to escape his golden iris and kamukura allows it to pass, as well, despite the odd temptation to brush it aside. “do you believe in this time? do you think it could occur?”

“yes.” kamukura does not hesitate. however, there is a lilt in the air and a tension in his shoulders. hm. he speaks, regardless, “perhaps you should leave the cliffside, now, and rest.” he deduces it has been three months since tanaka has rested. 

as he grasps the hand of tanaka and draws him away from the cliffside,

his shoulders relax as he rethinks the portent, feeling a strange sort of relief.

_ finally.  _

\--

hinata isn’t used to having them all be in the same place, despite the meal times and occasional birthday events they try to have. he also isn’t used to the happiness, palpable in the air-- he isn’t used to hearing so much  _ laughter _ . but, that’s not to say that he doesn’t  _ like  _ it. he’s relieved, really, that sonia proposed they all have a barbecue on the beach. he’s really, really relieved.

he can see hanamura on the grill, owari peering over his shoulder as sonia holds her hand, speaking to nidai and koizumi. saionji lingers around the photographer, leaving complaints hinata can vaguely make out as being “this meat is stinky!” it causes the group to laugh and after pouting a bit, saionji giggles to. hinata hopes that the meat actually  _ isn’t  _ stinky, but he’d be okay with it if he could hear everyone laugh like this again. 

speaking of laughter, he can hear souda giggling his ass off, and his eyes flicker to see him and kuzuryuu building a sandcastle. kuzuryuu’s grumbling, face bright red, and hinata isn’t really sure what happened but it’s really nice to see them relax like that. even if he does look away once souda reaches over to impulsively kiss kuzuryuu’s cheek, leaving him a more vibrant shade of crimson.

in the ocean near the couple, mioda is spinning tsumiki around, holding her tightly as the water splashes around their feet. pekoyama stays close, smiling fondly, and she leans down to help the two of them up when mioda accidentally trips and brings tsumiki down with her. tsumiki fusses over their injuries-- hinata can recognize the furrow of her brow-- but mioda waves it off and kisses her cheek, pointing at a starfish she sees in the distance and wading after it. her girlfriends follow her, slightly concerned but also amused, and it’s really, really nice to see it. 

off to the side, he can also see imposter and tanaka engaged in a conversation, despite the way imposter is constantly stuffing their mouth with food, and they also look pretty at ease. kamukura mentioned something in the headspace to hinata about tanaka, about him finally relaxing, and it’s cool to see. tanaka’s always been pretty skittish since waking up, so it’s honestly a relief to see him this chill. even if he  _ is  _ calling imposter a demon, which they seem to be accepting without judgement.

hinata has only a brief moment to notice that someone is missing before he feels that very person settle beside him with a cheerful smile and a chirped out, “isn’t it so wonderful, hinata-kun, to see everyone so happy?”

he laughs a bit and hardly has half a mind to process how fond it is. “yeah, it’s pretty nice.” he hesitates for a few minutes, one that komaeda accepts as comfortable silence, before hinata tentatively intertwines their fingers. komaeda seems to still for a few seconds, but he overall allows it, holding hinata’s hand and squeezing back. it gives him the courage to ask the other, keeping his voice low, “how have you been doing?”

komaeda smiles wider. “i’m okay, hinata-kun!” hinata hums an acknowledgement to the blatant lie. he knows that pressing won’t do much, so he’s content to let it rest for now, but komaeda continues with a different, more  _ honest  _ tone in his voice. “honestly, haha, it’s hard to see everyone be… so okay. it’s hard to… not feel miserable. i don’t think i deserve it, still. and i know what can happen if i… if i get  _ too  _ happy. it makes me want to…” he squeezes hinata’s hand before he sighs, shaking his head. “nevermind. i’m sorry, hinata-kun.” 

hinata doesn’t push, because he doesn’t want to force komaeda to say anything. he knows it’s a lot, and he really, really hopes komaeda  _ knows  _ that hinata gets it. that he doesn’t really  _ understand  _ it all, but he wants to, that he’ll wait for however long it takes before komaeda hits a breakthrough, before things start working out. he doesn’t know how to say it, so he scoots a bit closer and keeps his eyes focused on the horizon, on the sunlight hitting everything on the beach. 

and eventually, eventually he finds the words that don’t cover everything, but maybe will tell komaeda  _ something _ . so he stares at the waves, gentle and soothing, and murmurs, “promise me you’ll try.”

komaeda doesn’t reply, and hinata’s okay with that because he never really  _ expected _ him to. instead, he lets out a laugh that’s more vulnerable than hinata expected, tucking his face against his neck and smiling against his skin. hinata adjusts easily, wrapping his arm around komaeda’s waist and pressing his cheek against his soft white hair,

and he notes that this, too, is a work in progress.

he’s snapped out of his thoughts when koizumi calls out, “it’s photo time!” and everyone scrambles to fit onto the main picnic blanket. the photo isn’t really  _ perfect _ ; saionji punched souda in the shoulder right on time so kuzuryuu was in the middle of a laugh, and tsumiki’s eyes were closed while komaeda was looking a bit far off from the lens. despite the imperfections, koizumi insists on keeping it, and hinata surrounds himself with the warmth of his family, all remaining on the blanket and chatting idly.

_ my family. _

komaeda sees the tear fall down his cheek, even if nobody else does. with a concerned glance, he brushes it away, looking into hinata’s eyes with a question left lingering in the air. hinata laughs breathlessly, pressing their foreheads together, and whispers, “i think this is  _ hope _ , komaeda. and you don’t have to believe me, but-- i think it’s going to be  _ okay _ , now. we’re going to be okay.”

“yeah?” he whispers back, soft and  _ terrified _ .

hinata nods with a relaxed, bright smile. “yeah.” 

and hinata thinks he would fight enoshima a thousand times again if it meant he could always see komaeda light up like that, a small, beautiful smile across his face, scared because god he’s so scared but  _ real _ \-- and he can hear sonia cheering and nidai laughing at something he missed, but it’s okay, they have the rest of their lives to laugh at shitty jokes and funny stories,

and hinata thinks, then, that he’s never been more okay.

**Author's Note:**

> (i don’t intend to address a lot of this fic here, but what i will say is that i’m sorry there is not a lot of mention of nanami. i kind of failed to incorporate her. sorry. also sorry about the amount of tags. anyway.)
> 
> a year ago, i posted my first fic. a shitty character study (with abysmal pacing, even worse than this) i wrote for my best friend, celestial_nova. nova, another friend of mine outside this fandom, and a mutual named toxicpineapple encouraged me to post it, to make an archive account. i posted “macabre hope (i fear for tomorrow)” not expecting anything.
> 
> i didn’t expect fanfiction to emerge as a coping mechanism. i didn’t expect to write 116 fics. i didn’t expect to meet so many incredible, talented, kind people— many who i wouldn’t hesitate to call my closest friends. i didn’t expect to join servers and ship weeks, to work on collabs and gifts— i didn’t expect to be accepted.
> 
> i know that sounds extremely stupid and overly sentimental. but fuck, it means so much to me. 
> 
> it's almost unreal, the fact that i'm here. 
> 
> this last year of my life has been a struggle. it’s been really, really hard. life always is, y’know? i'm not even sure if, a year ago, i thought i would make it this long. so to have found this place to go when i had a hard day, needed to read some hurt/comfort, needed to vent… it means so much. it sounds so stupid, but fuck. i’m so happy i have this place. that i’m not alone anymore. 
> 
> it’s gonna be okay. i know someone probably needs to hear that, right now. we made it through another year. congratulations; i’m proud of you. i love you, i love you, i love you.
> 
> sorry for the sappiness, but... happy one year anniversary to sunflower_8 existing. i love you all. 
> 
> until next time.


End file.
